Bragging Rights
by darthsydious
Summary: Molly brings Sherlock to her high school reunion, hoping to make a better impression on her old school mates. Naturally, Sherlock is more than happy to brag about his pathologist. Did I mention she's pregnant? Sherlolly


"I don't understand why _I_ must be dragged into this. Surely this is more John's area."

"It is but as he's married, I thought it would be awkward to bring a married man to my high school reunion, Besides, needs must, and if all else fails, you owe me Sherlock Holmes." Molly held out the suit jacket to the Consulting Detective who scowled at her. "Sherlock Holmes I am not going to my high school reunion by myself in my condition, to face my old peers who are all probably well-to-do and up to their capped teeth in money. It was all I could do to get through high school." He smiled at her, now at seven months pregnant she was less than petite. The baby was Tom's, but Tom was out of the picture. Sherlock had made inquiries as to where the father had buggered off to, and Mycroft obliged with the information. The last Molly heard, Tom was somewhere in America, hiding from them.

"If you hate them, then why go at all?" Sherlock queried, finally slipping his arms into the sleeves and settling the collar at his neck.

"To show them that I'm just as well off," Molly said. "And that I'm not a failure." He turned to face her, surprised.

"Molly Hooper, you of all people, can hardly be considered a failure. You speak regularly at Oxford and Cambridge, your findings in your particular field have revolutionized techniques in pathology, and…you happen to not be fat, you are merely pregnant." She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Do tell me then, how I'm supposed to face all of my old high-school 'chums' and I use the term loosely, the size that I am, no escort, and still talking about brain matter and corpses. Oh yes, I'll be belle of the ball, Sherlock. I'm vain enough to care what they think after the hell they put me through, to want to prove them all wrong. All I want is to show up with arm candy, i.e. _you_ –" he did a double take. "-show off that I'm happy, and then buggar off and leave them to their own devices. That's. It. You don't have to dance, get me drinks or compliment me. All you have to do is play the part of my husband or fiancé or whatever for one night. _Please_." She drew breath at last at the end of her plead and he nodded.

"Well, I suppose a little come-uppance to one's old rivals is good for the soul." She sighed with relief and he smiled then, meaning it.

"Well," she stepped back. "You look very dashing, what about me?" she tugged at the front of her dress, scowling that her belly raised the hem of her skirt over her knees, which made the back of her dress hang lower. It was a pretty dress, but it was not Molly at all. The fabric was the cheap satin badly made wedding gowns were made of. His nose wrinkled as he pulled a face, trying to think of a way to not insult her.

"Rather ill-fitting, don't you think?" he asked and she glared at him.

"I'm seven months pregnant, Sherlock. This is all I could find that fit me half-decently."

"I beg to differ." He retrieved his phone from his pocket. In a moment Anthea picked up. "Dearest sister in-law, you know Molly's size, she's having…trouble."  
"I am not," Molly tugged again at the front of her dress.

"I'll have something in thirty minutes," Anthea promised.

True to her word, in half an hour a dress bag was delivered to 221b, some designer label printed on the front.

"Dare I ask how you know my maternity size?" Molly asked as Anthea led her to Sherlock's room to help her change.

"Simple math," Anthea shrugged. She helped unzip the pathologist, helping her out of the blush frock and into a mint green chiffon and lace gown. "There, the invitation is black tie; I've made Sherlock put on something a little more proper than his every day suit."

"I wish you were coming with us," Molly said, looking at Anthea in the mirror.

"Now wouldn't that make a charming picture," Anthea laughed. "All three of us at your high school reunion. Sherlock refused to attend the one for his class at Eton, so it's good for him to be uncomfortable for a while, especially if it's for the sake of your pride. You need an escort, and Sherlock will last about eight minutes before he starts bragging about you, trust me."

"He's just happy that Tom is gone and I can devote more time to him now," Molly excused. "I mean in the lab…"

"Keep telling yourself that," Anthea laughed, then lowered her voice: "He's actually very pleased Tom is gone, but not for the reason you think, and this," she placed her hands over Molly's belly. "He's looking forward to this more than you know, but heaven help you if you let on that I told you so." Molly didn't know what to say at first. It was true; Sherlock had been incredibly helpful ever since Tom had broken things off. In fact he'd gotten Mrs. Hudson to rent the top flat to her for a very reasonable fee since she'd been kicked out of Tom's flat. Sherlock had gone with her to her Lamaze classes (or at least tried to, after the fifth one he insisted he could learn everything else on the internet).

"My lips are sealed." Molly promised finally and then turned back to the mirror to see how she looked. The hem reached her knees and was even all around. The fabric was smooth and 'swished' when she walked. Molly still felt like a lumbering bull in a china shop, but at least she looked nice.

"You've got great legs, can you manage heels tonight?" Anthea asked, and Molly nodded that she could. She'd been practicing walking in them all week, just to get used to the difference in balance. "There, give us a turn," Molly obeyed and Anthea nodded, grinning. "Pièce de résistance," Anthea took out a small velvet box.

"Oh dear, this is so sudden," Molly laughed, taking the box.

"It's a loan, mind," Anthea said. "I've got a few rocks I hardly wear, and you ought to have a big one for tonight." Molly slipped the massive diamond and sapphire ring onto her ring finger, admiring it.

"You sound like you speak from experience,"

"I've been to a few uncomfortable parties where everyone hates you," Anthea shrugged. "The best revenge is to out-dress everyone." She paused then. "It helps if your date has a good arse. They'll hate you coming and going." They burst out laughing, Molly clutching her sides as Sherlock knocked on the door, asking what was taking so long.

Emerging from the bedroom, Molly tugged at her dress, glaring at her boobs and how they refused to fit properly.

"Well, I'm ready, I suppose," she groused. She looked up only to find Sherlock behind her, helping her into her coat. The collar at her neck, he bent, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek.

"Stop fussing, you look radiant." He offered his arm, smirking. "To battle?" She smiled in return, ducking her head.

"To battle."

The hour-long trip to her reunion was spent wringing her hands, while Sherlock checked his email and groused about John's latest blog post. Mycroft insisted they take the town-car.

"It'll look spiffy, compared to a cab you know everyone else is taking," Anthea explained.

They pulled up; both leaned over to the window, peering out at the large banner hanging on the front of the hotel (clearly hand-made), beneath it the school mascot stood waving and greeting people.

Both groaned.

"Good God."

"End it all now."

"Happy face," Molly grumbled to herself as the driver came around to open her door and help her out. Sherlock followed suit, taking her arm.

She found her nametag, carefully pinning it to her gown, worrying it would leave a mark.

"Never mind it, the dress is yours," Sherlock said. "Mummy and father's fifty-fifth is coming up next month, it's to be a big to-do and they have asked I bring you along,"

"Me?" Molly was surprised.

"My parents are rather fond of you," he murmured, cheeks red, though the corners of his mouth betrayed the tiniest of smiles.

"Molly? Molly Hooper?" a shrill voice squealed nearby and Molly visibly winced.

"Hello, Carolyn, how are you?"

"Not as well as you, I see, got knocked up I see! Good of you to drag the father down!" Carolyn elbowed Molly lightly. "Lord but I wasn't half as big as you, it must be twins!" Immediately she cupped Molly's belly, patting it. Molly, too upset to speak, turned to Sherlock who looked positively apoplectic.

"Um, Sherlock, this um, is Carolyn Danvers, old classmate."

"Sherlock Holmes how do you do," Sherlock slid his arm around Molly's waist, tugging her nearer.

"Holmes? Oh the detective on the news! What about him and that Janine girl? Broke her heart eh? Well when he breaks yours Molly, send him my way, I could use a little excitement and lord knows you can't keep up! She never could get a date in high school!" Carolyn babbled on, laughing.

"Perhaps that's because her intelligence is higher than the fetid piss-wallow this school encourages the student body to linger in," Sherlock replied crisply.

"What?" Carolyn looked confused, and almost sure she should be insulted.

"And she's Molly Holmes now, by the way. Not Hooper," Sherlock went on, taking Molly's arm and leading her away to find a table. "Are they all this inept?" he asked, not bothering to keep his voice down.

"You don't have to pretend to be my husband," Molly murmured, flushed that Sherlock had so boldly lied about them.

"Nonsense," Sherlock smiled. "Did you see her face? Who else can we torment? This is rather fun."

"Oh, um…well…it's really a question of where do you want to start-" she didn't even get to finish her sentence. Sherlock's next victim approached, started to not-so-subtly insult Molly and was quickly outsmarted, out-sassed and rebutted by Sherlock. It became a sport to those who had _not_ bullied Molly Hooper to see which of her old enemies would receive the best dressing-down from her husband. Sherlock Holmes happily played the part, he danced with Molly, fetched her refreshments, kissed her (Molly was almost fooled, to be honest by his amorous attentions). She had such a good time she was almost sorry to go, but needs must, and she was tired after pulling an extra shift to get the night off. Sherlock made their excuses, bundling her off to the car.

The car brought them to 221b, and by the time she reached the landing of Sherlock's flat, she was too tired to go all the way upstairs.

"Stay," Sherlock said, guiding her inside. "It's no trouble."

She sank onto the sofa, kicking her shoes off.

"It felt like it took ages to get back," she yawned. He sat down beside her, unlacing his own shoes.

"It did. Mycroft got bored and was playing with the traffic lights. He apologized around midnight, he'd forgotten we were coming home."

"Oh." Head against his shoulder, she sighed lightly. "Thank you for tonight, Sherlock." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"My pleasure."

"M'feet hurt," she groaned.

"Take your stockings off," he got to his feet, heading to the kitchen. She got up, heading to the bathroom, not even questioning his odd request. When she returned, stockings in hand, Sherlock was setting a basin on the floor in front of the couch, filling it with hot water. "Feet in," he ordered. Sitting again, she tested the warmth of the water before slipping her feet all the way under, groaning in delight.

"Better," she murmured, smiling her thanks and Sherlock got up.

"Tea?"

"Please." He returned in a little while, handing her a mug. He'd taken off his socks and rolled up his trousers to his calves.

"Bunch up," he said and she shifted her feet in the basin, Sherlock putting his feet in the warm water beside hers. He sat back, mug of tea against his chest. She smiled at the sight, never expecting to see Sherlock Holmes putting up his feet. "This isn't half bad," he said after a moment. "I'll thank you to stop smirking at me, Molly Hooper," he said, eyes still shut. She stretched, reaching, finally managing to press his cheek. She tried to wipe off the lipstick stain, then shrugged, too tired to give it any real effort. "I can feel the baby kicking," he said. His arm rested against her belly, so she wasn't surprised. With a grunt, he rolled over, settling his head on what was left of her lap. Turning his head, he kissed her belly. "Hello baby, they say it's good to talk to you while you are still in the womb,"

"Are you drunk?" Molly laughed, making his head bob up and down.

"No," Sherlock answered. "But I dislike quiet. You're tired, and the baby is awake. We might as well make it an educational experience for her." Molly's gaze softened.

"You did remember it's a girl," she smiled.

"Of course I did," Sherlock gently tapped against her belly. "Your mummy thinks I forgot, but we know better, don't we?"

"Sherlock…"

"Shh," he frowned at her. "I'm trying to have a conversation," She bit her lip, fighting the urge to grin through her tears and failing. "Now, where were we? Ah yes," he was tracing circles over Molly's stomach, wherever the baby decided to kick. "Your mummy thinks I don't much care for children, or for you, which is quite untrue. Well. Most children. I like John and Mary's little spawn-"

"She's not a spawn!" Molly said, hushed. Sherlock continued:

"And I fully expect to become completely besotted with you as well. The man who was supposed to be your father did me a tremendous service, leaving as he did, though I am afraid in doing so he wronged your mother. A wrong I intend to make right," he finally looked up at Molly. "If she will let me." Molly ran her fingers through his hair, he sighed at the touch, enjoying the sensation.

"Come up here where I can see all of you," she sniffed, laughing. He sat up, drawing her close. Leaning against the arm of the sofa, he leaned her back against his chest, settling her between his legs.

"I mean it," he said, arms around her waist. "I want…" his hands settled on her belly, chin against her shoulder. "This, all of this, whatever it entails." Molly, tired, smiled and sighed as if relieved.

"I know you do." She turned, kissing him, leaving another lipstick stain, this time on the corner of his mouth.

"I'll have to get you a ring," he said, eying the cocktail ring Anthea had loaned her.

"Something a little more sedate, I hope," she giggled. After a moment, she sobered, thinking. "It won't be easy Sherlock, having a baby."

"I know," he said.

"Especially one that isn't yours."

"It's half yours," he said quietly. "That would be enough for me." The silence settled comfortably between them, the clock on the wall chimed two in the morning. "Names," he suddenly said, voice heavy with sleep.

"What about?" Molly asked.

"Well…if I'm going to be a father, I have to think of names." Molly smiled.

"Middle names," she corrected. "I'm her mum after all, dibs on first name."

"Just so," he said, kissing her temple. "So long as she has _my_ last name." Molly cracked an eye open, looking at him, wondering why he'd mention it. Of course the baby would have his last name. Hell, it might have both of their last names if she wanted! "Bragging rights," he shrugged. "I don't suppose babies are allowed at high school reunions." Molly laughed, shaking her head.

"No, Sherlock."

"Pity, I was looking forward to boasting about my girls to your peers again."


End file.
